


In a Land of Myth

by AstridVega (CrownPrincessMoon)



Series: moonbeams from lightning; or frost from fire [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29567217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrownPrincessMoon/pseuds/AstridVega
Summary: When Uther finally conquered the Old Religion, he brought back more than just the Great Dragon as a token of his victory.He also brought back a strange, little boy with little memory of his past and bracelets of cold iron.He lives in the North Tower.—Or—In which Merlin is raised as the King's Ward (cough,prisoner, cough), becomes partners-in-crime with the dangerous but alluring Lady Morgana, swears never-ending fealty to the lovely Guinevere, and somehow manages to fall in love with the son of the man he hates most in the world, Prince Arthur.Oh, and destiny also gets involved at some point or another.
Relationships: Arthur Pendragon & Uther Pendragon (Merlin), Gwen & Merlin & Morgana & Arthur Pendragon, Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: moonbeams from lightning; or frost from fire [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2172231
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	In a Land of Myth

**Author's Note:**

> Self-indulgent oneshot that I may or may not continue. It's been in my WIP for two years now, though, so I decided what the heck? Might as well post-it!
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

There are stories told about the North Tower of Camelot.  
  
To the nervous young women and men who take their first fumbling steps into the Citadel as the latest handmaiden or stable boy in the Pendragon household, it's a certain death sentence; for if the King hears that someone so much as paused by the spiraling, white stone staircase to catch their breath after a tiring load of laundry, there would be hell to pay.  
  
The more seasoned men and women in Uther's employ roll their eyes at the young ones' naivete, fondly recalling their own irrational paranoia as they cuff them behind their ears and explain that the king simply prefers to remain undisturbed whilst in the North Tower. These tales, the older say, are foolish stories for the easily frightened.  
  
Needless to say, all servants did what they could to avoid that part of the castle.  
  
No, that's not it at all, the noble lords and ladies of the court dissent, chuckling at the endearing ignorance of the lower class and shaking their jewel-covered heads indulgently as one would when correcting a young child.  
  
No, you see, the North Tower holds only the greatest riches of the realm.  
  
A pair of diamond-encrusted daggers with ruby-set pommels that once belonged to the first Queen of Camelot, emerald amulets the size of a child's fists, and enough holy grails for every knight of Camelot to have one in his quarters. But much like how the moon's glow eclipses the stars, an arch of pure silver in an obsidian sky, or a rose in a field of wildflowers, blood-red in its perfection, one treasure transcends them all.  
  
It's a crown, they say. A circlet, really, if you want to get all particular about it.  
It's the most beautiful thing in the world, crafted of silver thread that looks as if it had been spun from the moon itself and set with delicate metal flowers, seconds from flowering.  
  
Uther's grandfather stole it from the Faerie Queen, they say. Charmed it right off her head before he slit her throat in front of her fey court, staining her gossamer dress crimson.  
  
Her dress is in the tower, too, but that tale is for another time.  
  
In the lower town, it's a different story.  
  
Beyond the walls of Citadel and its nervous servants and gossiping nobles, the peasants weave a different song: one of a kind and beautiful queen who was remembered by the people by the paints that forever stained her hands, with hair of corn-yellow silk and eyes bluer than the crystal waters of Avalon.  
Her husband loved her so that he gave her the North Tower as a wedding gift, a place where there would always be a new canvas available and every color imaginable would line her shelves.  
  
When she died the king could no longer stand to look upon the tower, nor could he bear to destroy the place that had once made his queen smile.  
And so he barred the entrances and let nature take its toll until the vines that crawled across its walls overtook the window where she once stood, brush in hand.  
  
And still, one more tale exists, one that is seldom told and even less heard of, breathed from the mouths of peculiar men and curious women.  
  
Peculiar men like the old man who comes only in the winter, a snow-white beard gracing his knees.  
  
There are stories about him, too. A touch, people say, of his hand will cure a child's sickness, a woman's barren womb, a man's broken bone. He accepts no payment for his services, he takes only food, he sleeps in the stables. He's always gone by the end of the season, just as the peonies begin to make themselves known, uncurling their petals as the first rays of the spring sun chase away the snow.  
  
Curious women like the raven-haired maiden who lives alone in the woods with nothing but the trees, and rocks, and streams for company.  
  
In every village she stops, she goes into the tavern and demands their finest ale, her smile soft and deceiving, like a coiled snake who watches through slitted eyes for their moment to strike. Those who turn her away later find that their crops have withered back home and their tankards are filled with sand.  
  
For those who do serve her, complimenting her fey looks as they do, they find that their crops have flourished and that their drinks now hold a peculiar gleam, much like the woman's eyes as she sipped from her cup the previous night.  
  
In either case, this peculiar man and this curious woman would beckon all who would lend them their ear to their sides as they told the true story of the North Tower.  
  
Once upon a time, they would begin, in a hushed voice that compelled all to fall silent and listen, in an age where dragons ruled the skies and mortal men reigned below, a human king wished for nothing more than for his wife to bear him a son.  
  
And so he begged a High Priestess of the Old Religion to grant his wish, they explained, ignoring the hisses of warning and fear at the mention of the forbidden art, and though she warned him that the Goddess would demand something in return, he paid no heed to her warning.  
  
True to her words, the High Priestess gave his wife a son of wispy, gold-spun hair and eyes as blue as the crystal streams of Avalon, and for a short while the human king rejoiced.  
  
But as he celebrated the son magic had given him, the Goddess took the life of the one he loved most, for as the High Priestess had warned, magic always came at a price, they would growl this last part, eyes turning dark with pain and anger.  
  
Heartbroken, the human king turned his back on the Old Religion. And as his sadness turned to madness, he declared war on magic and vowed to purge it from his lands.  
  
Hundreds were killed—from the smallest babe in his cradle to the elders who served his fathers before him—in what would become known as the Great Purge, and still, the human king's thirst for revenge would not be sated.  
  
And so King Uther Pendragon of Camelot turned his wrath on the Kingdom of Essetir, where the peaceful Druids tended to the golden magic that ran through all things and Dragons and their lords had free reign of the sky under the rule of King Balinor and Queen Hunith Ambrosius.  
  
It was here that the patrons of the tavern or villagers in the town square would exchange looks of confusion, for while many had heard of Prince Cendred and his father, none had heard of Balinor.  
  
But it was true, the old man would insist with a sad smile and faraway look. The raven-haired maiden's lips curled into something vicious, sharp and pained, and for a brief moment, they were both lost in the memory of a time that was.  
  
With a shake of their heads, they continue.  
  
In the heart of Essetir, in a dense forest kingdom known only as Ealdor, lied a closely guarded secret by all who tended to the land. Since the birth of magic in the Crystal Cave, the Druids have spoken of one who would be the most powerful sorcerer to walk the earth, not because he had magic, but because he was magic made flesh and bone.

_Emrys_ , they called him.  
  
He would be the one to undermine Uther's reign.

He would clear the way for the Once and Future King.

He would be the Old Religion's champion and the Goddess' _rage_. 

While mortal kings pulled dragons from the sky and slew their lords, while mortal men marched on Druid encampments and set them ablaze, Emrys grew up safely hidden away within the palace of Ealdor, his presence kept secret from all those beyond their walls for fear of Uther's retaliation.  
  
But the king and queen were betrayed, and Uther learned about Emrys and his destiny.  
  
Under the guise of friendship, he invited Balinor and the Great Dragon to Camelot, preaching lies of peace and tolerance. And as the Great Dragon was dragged down to earth and chained beneath the Citadel, Uther led an invasion of Ealdor and razed all who dared stand in his path.  
  
He struck down Emrys.   
  
And in the ruins of a once grand fortress, in a room on the verge of collapse, Uther found a child no taller than his waist with moonstone skin and ink-black hair: the prince of Ealdor.

In a rare show of compassion, Uther spared the child and brought him back to Camelot, locking him away in the North Tower with manacles of dark magic locked around his wrists, keeping his magic forever at bay.  
  
That, this peculiar man or curious woman says to the now silent crowd, is the story of the North Tower.  
  
The next day the old man swings from the gallows and the raven-haired maiden sparks on the pyre.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are appreciated <3


End file.
